


Pàtroklos : Honour of the Father

by Proskenion



Series: Young Theon in Pyke [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Pre-Canon, References to The Song of Achilles, very little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23479459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proskenion/pseuds/Proskenion
Summary: Episodes of Theon's and Balon's life together, a story about their relationship, from both their point of views alternatively.
Relationships: Balon Greyjoy & Theon Greyjoy
Series: Young Theon in Pyke [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/886869
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	Pàtroklos : Honour of the Father

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SelkieWife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelkieWife/gifts).



> Hiya ! 
> 
> So, a few explanations before starting. The title has been inspired to me by the novel The Song of Achilles. The same Patroclus (or Pàtroklos in ancient Greek) means Honour/Glory of the Father. There are many many things on that novel that reminded me of Theon, and though I wanted to write about Theon & Balon's relationship, I didn't really know how to do it before reading that book - which, btw, you should absolutely read if you haven't. That's why I chose to leave Patroclus' name in the title, even if the story has Nothing to do with him in the end. It's a sort of tribute, I guess.  
> Also, for those of you who read the book, you will obviously spot the references and scènes inspired by the book itslef. 
> 
> Of course I own nothing, neither things in my one-shot related to ASoIaF nor TSoA ^^
> 
> Enjoy <3

‘Make him shut up ! Make him shut up or I swear I’ll throw him out the window !’ Balon’s voice is like a thunderstorm. Alannys’ eyes when she glares at her husband are like lightnings.

‘Just try,’ she says with a voice as cold as ice. She stands and walks to the crib and takes Theon in her arms. Balon watches quietly as his wife try to calm the baby down, keeping his irritation inside. His anger is hard to tame, but hers is even worse. 

It is not only the noise, the incessant wailing, that gets on Balon’s nerves – it is _why_. What is wrong with this one ? Why can’t he stop crying ? None of Balon’s other children have ever done so. Rodrik has been temperamental and inclined to violence from a young age, while Maron has always been extraordinary quiet and cunning. Even Asha, who was only a girl, was tougher than him. The maester has looked on the child again and again, but they cannot find any explanations. There is nothing wrong, they say. Nothing physical, at least. _So why can’t he stop ?_

Balon growls when Theon, instead of calming down, starts yelling even more. He stands and walks out of the room quickly, slamming the door behind him. It only makes Theon shout louder. Balon sighs. He simply wishes for a bit of quiet. 

Balon stops in the middle of the bridge that links two of the towers. There he can rest, there he can breathe. There is no rain tonight, which is a mercy. Only a soft breeze, bringing the salted air from the sea and making the wooden bridge swing. He closes his eyes and it’s just like he is at sea on the front deck of his ship. The rope in his hands feels familiar, rough and strong like the skin of a reluctant lover. He dreams himself a king whose name induces awe and fear in every living soul. He dreams himself a raideur and conqueror, taking what is his, lord of the seas and master of all, with slaves and salt-wives taken from every ports. He dreams himself bigger than he is and ever will be, far away from fallen Pyke and nursery nuisances. The rain begins to fall. Balon turns his face up to the sky and welcomes the drops on his face, water running on his skin like the tears he never sheds. 

A sudden fit of rage shakes him. He opens his eyes, letting the rain fall in them and he grits his teeth, as if daring the sky to try to hurt him. His eyes start to burn, his jaw starts to ache because of the tension. He yells. Why should he be stuck here, worrying about wailing babies and what they would become, when his ancestors were fierce warriors that the whole world would fear ? He is fierce too, and strong. His position, his men’s respect, he has earned it with brave deeds. And he has to think of the future, his future, his name’s future, the Iron Islands’ future. He could not afford any weaklings in his lineage.

*

Theon is alone in the great hall. He escaped his nurse and stumbled there, half on foot, half crawling. He felt small in this room, smaller than he was. He would stare at the throne, and the huge glass window beaten by the rain, and the ceiling, and the hearth. At time he would squeak, to hear his voice resonate in the empty hall. It pleased his ears to here the echo of his laughters and giggles, spreading like water sounds in a great God’s hall.

‘What are you doing here alone ?’ 

His father’s voice startles him like the roar of storms awake him at night. He rolls on the floor, falling because his fearful jump. He almost starts crying, but he feels his father lift him up, and the sobs got stuck in his throat, fright forcing him still. But when his eyes meet Balon’s he sees no anger there, no displeasure. 

‘Escaped your nurse again, eh ?’ 

An even voice, with no trace of wrath, even maybe tinted with some amusement. Theon looks in amazement. Balon holds his son firmly and sits him on one of his wide shoulders. He walks to the wide table he used with his men to plot raids and such. He puts Theon on it. Theon looks with wide eyes at his father’s face while the man watches him back carefully. 

‘How old are you now ? Three ?’ 

‘Almost four,’ Theon replies. 

Balon snorts. Theon wonders what the man is thinking, what means that repressed laugh and his black eyebrows lifting up. He is not used to his father attention. Not this way, at least. 

‘Do you know what are sigil is ? What the Greyjoys’ sigil is ?’ 

‘A kraken from the deep sea,’ the little boy answers immediately, proud of knowing the answer. Is it a smile he sees at the corner of his father’s mouth ? 

‘And our words ?’

This Theon could not say. He knows he should know, he has been told before. He lowers his eyes with shame, tears already filling his eyes. 

‘Look at me,’ Balon orders, and so the little boy does so. ‘Our words are _we do not sow_. Do you know why ?’ Theon shook his head. ‘Because we’re not some peasants that work and grow what we need. What we want we take. We are lords raiders, we take what is ours. Do you understand ?’ 

Theon thinks about it, letting the words sink in his mind, before nodding. Balon seems pleased. After that he tells him about what his father calls the old way, he talks about reaving and plundering, about paying the iron price, about the salt throne and the Drowned God, creator of the sea. Theon listens, carefully, passionately, drinking the man’s words. He understands, in his own childish way, that those tales tells the story of his own blood, of his ancestors of old, and thus his own story. When Balon is finished, Theon almost asks for more. But Balon takes him by his waist and puts him on the floor. There, Theon feels small again. 

‘Now go find your nurse,’ his father says. ‘And tell her I’m not happy with her for letting you alone.’ 

Theon nods and obeys.

*

Balon feels restless and irritated. He always does. He walks to a window and opens it full. The weather is surpringly good, and beams of sun pierces through greyish clouds. Balon growls. That is southern weather, for soft people.

Shouts draws his attention. His eyes scans the area like an eagle looking for a prey. He spots them, his sons. Maron, perched on a rock with one of his legs swinging in the void beneath. He is throwing stones below, where Rodrik stands, laughing with a voice like stone against steal. In Rodrik’s grip, Theon, strungling to escape, yelling like a dying pig. Every stone trowned by Maron inevitably reaches some part of the little boy’s body. Balon sighs. 

_Come on_ , he thinks, _man up ! Defend yourself, for the Drowned God’s sake !_

But Theon does not. Instead, he screams everytime a stone strikes him. At some point Rodrik lets go of him, but as Theon tries to flee, Rodrik trips him and laughs louder than ever when the boy falls. Balon shakes his head.

Maron stops with the stones. He says something, but Balon is too far from them to hear. After he spoke, Maron laughs and starts singing, while Rodrik proceeds to punch and kick their youngest brother. Balon watches, as still as a mountain. He waits and hopes for Theon to stand up and fight back. But it never happens. 

Then he sees Asha running like a lioness in the wild and jumping on Rodrik’s back. Rodrik tries to shake her off but she hangs on him tight, her small hands strong as a vulture’s claws. Maron laughs, clapping his hands together, howling like a wolf. Eventually the girl falls from Rodrik’s shoulders. She rolls on the ground and jumps to her feet again, rushing on him and pushing him away. Rodrik stumbles. He sneers. He says something and gestures to Maron, who jumps from his perched and followes as Rodrik leaves. Asha kneels near Theon, probably to check he is alright. 

Balon does not stay to see. He closes the window and sighs. 

_Even his sister is stronger than him._

*

Sea water to his knees, Theon throws pebbles in the waves. With Asha, they at who will throw them the farthest. Behind them, Alannys sits in the sands and watches them. She laughs when they quarrel over whose best, because she knows those quarrels are genuine. She is carving a piece of wood with a small knife, blade a silver so bright it almost seems white, the handle made of pure ivory.

Theon love that knife, but his mother does not want to let him play with it. He shall have him when he is growned, she says. So, waiting for that time to come, he competes with his sister at throwing pebbles. She wins most of the time, but sometimes he is the one who wins. He does not Asha actually leaves him win from time to time, and he will never know. 

As the sun goes down Alannys call them back. They both run to her, and they go back home together. Theon loves those moments, when it is just the three of them. Only then he can pretend everything is alright. But they reach the hall, Rodrik and Maron exist again, and Balon is still here in the shadow. Theon knows his dark face well, his disagreeing frowned, his angry silence. 

Afterwards, hiding outside their room, curl up against the wood of the door, he could hear the creams and shouts his parents throw at each other. His father screaming she will make a woman out of him, that she has cursed him with a daughter already and he didn’t need another, that when they were his age Rodrik and Maron was fierce and fearless when he was weak and covering like a beat dog. His mother replying with just as much storm in her voice, that Balon is a brainless brute that doesn’t deserve the golden children she has given him, and that one day his fearless sons will cut his throat to take his throne the same way he did with his own kin, and that when that day comes, Theon, Asha and herself will spit on his corpse laugh. And Theon cries and cries and cries, trying to shut his ears with his baby hands, but their voices pass through and the yell go on, and sometimes the words turn to growls and roar and mingles with muffled sounds of flesh against flesh or against fabric when his parents fight becomes physical. 

It ends up like that, every single time.

*

Balon watches from a distance as Theon practices in the yard. Dagmer Longclaws is teaching him to fight with axes. Balon has heard his daughter like axes too much for a girl, but at least she does like them. Theon does not look shaped to use them properly. What weapon is he shaped to use, anyway ?

The lesson stops. Theon smiles as Dagmer brushes his hair. Balon snorts angrily. The man should not praise such failure. Then Theon takes a bow and runs to the archery yard. Dagmer sees Balon and walks to him. 

‘He isn’t good for a damn thing, is he ?’ Balon asks when the man is near. 

He sees Dagmer frown slightly, but he knows the man would not dare contradict him openly. And yet he says :

‘Theon works hard and always asks for more. He's still a child, he has time enough to learn to use weapons.’ 

‘Not that much time,’ Balon answers. He thinks about raids, and wars to be won. He thinks about the antic glory of the Iron Island and their salt throne. He thinks about the king he wants to be. 

‘He is good at archery, my lord,’ Dagmer says. 

Balon snorts again, sneers a little. 

‘The weapon of coward,’ he spits, as if the words tasted bitter on his tongue. 

Dagmer eyes him sideway but says nothing. At that moment, the men realise they can’t hear the whistling of arrows anymore. They look and see Theon is standing some feet away from them, watching. His face his down but he is looking at them from bellow, his exoression cristal clear. He has heard everything. 

Balon shrugs, and turns his back.

*

Theon sits in the sand. He escaped when he saw Rodrik and Maron coming back from the pub. He was alone on the beach and he was happy. Safe. He had brought with him a wooden toy his mother had curved for him in an octopus shape. He sits and watches at the delicately curved wood, at the details of the tentacles, at the huge eyes looking back at him, and he does not notice the sun going down on the horizon. He does not notice the other boy approaching either.

‘What’s that you’re holding ?’ the boy asks. 

Theons jumps to his feet and turns. It is not Rodrik, it is not Maron. It is a boy he does not know. A boy from Lordsport, surely enough. Theon frowns and holds the toy tight. 

‘Leave me alone,’ he says to the boy. 

The boy laughs. He walks towards Theon and stops right in front of him. He is tall and older, probably around the same age as Maron, and Theon has to gather up all his will not not follow his instinct to step back. The boy stretches his hand.

‘Give it to me,’ he says.

‘No.’ Theon tries as hard as he can to sound firm, despite his blood beatin at his ears. 

‘I said, give it to me.’ 

‘Don’t you know who I am ?’

The boy looks him from head to toe and smirks. He asks maliciously : 

‘And who the hell are you ?’ 

‘Theon Greyjoy.’ Theon lifts his chin, hoping to look princely. It only makes the other laugh.

‘I am the son of the Lord Reaper of Pyke !’ Theon exclaimes, offended by the boy’s laughter. The other laughed even more. 

‘Well, that does not make you anything. Your father’s the lord, not you.’ 

Theon blushes, from anger and shame both. He grits his teeth, hands clenched on his toy. He wants to yell at that boy’s face that if he dares touch him, his brothers will track him down and tear him apart, and his father will have him chained on the shore and laugh as the tied comes to drown him. He wants to say it, but the words got stuck in his throat ; for he knows them to be lies. 

‘Give that to me,’ the boy orders more sharply, taking a step forwards. 

‘No !’ Theon steps back only to escape the other boy’s grip. ‘It’s mine !’

‘You’ll give it, or I’ll beat the hell out of you !’

‘Try, then !’ 

Theon is in a fury. If they could, his eyes would be shooting fire, and foam would escape from his mouth. But he is no hero, no mythical creature, and the other boy is twice his side. The other boy is taller it’s true, and stronger, but he is slower also. When he tries to catch Theon, the little boy jumps out of his reach. And his wrath washing over him, he runs to the boy, pushing him as hard as he can. They’re on the beach, he will not hurt himself much when he falls, it is only sand. 

Except it is not only sand. The Islands shores are full of rocks as well. The boy falls and he does not stand up. He does not move at all. Theon stares for a while, stunned. Then he sees the bloog stain forming around the boy head. He gasps, steps back, and turns to run away. 

It is Dagmer that finds him, hours later, curled up in a ball inside a cave. The man kneels beside him, puts a tender hand on his back. 

‘Come on, son. Your father is calling for you.’ 

Theon nods slowly. He cannot speak, fears and horror keep him paralysed. He takes Dagmer hands and lets the man guide him to his father’s hall, the very image of a prisoner walking slowly to his death. 

When he stands in front of his father he is alone, Dagmer does not hold his hand anymore, and feels shrivelled and weak. He wonders if he should kneel, as he has seen some men do before his father when they stand accused of some misdeeds. But when Balon speaks his name, there was anger in it. Theon looks up and is abashed to see his father smile at him. 

‘Well done, Theon. You killed your first man today. Now according to the ironborn law, you truly are a man. Come, son. Come to me.’ 

Theon does not moved. He watches at his lord father with eyes like disc. He has never heard him talk to him that way, with warmth and pride in his voice. He has expected anger, but he is facing contentment. Acceptance, at last. He obeys, walks forwards. He is so overwhelms his steps are not sure enough. He stumbles. He sees his father frown. 

‘Why are you shaking ?’ 

Theon stops. He feels a lump in his throat. Balon Stands and walks to him. He watches him closely. 

‘Did you cry ?’ 

Theon does not answer. Even if he wanted to he could not. He does not know what to say. Any hints of pride of joy is gone from his father’s face now. He looks at Theon as if he was some rotted piece of meat full of flies. 

‘Get out,’ he orders. ‘I cannot believe that even now, you’re still the disappointment you always are.’ 

Theon leaves, covering up and running out of the room. It is only when he reaches his room and hides under his bed that he starts crying again.

*

Balon is kneeling on the cold, damp stones of his own hall’s floor. He keeps his head down, because he does not want to see the man who forced him to his knees. He does not want to his wife whose grief for their sons’ death is painted on her face. He does not want to see his two younger children watching being humiliating that way.

He is broken, and it kills him, he feels it in every inches of his body, a pain like million small sharks eating his skin. He tries not to think about it, but how ca he not in such an undignify position ? 

He complies, he agrees to everything. He cannot do otherwise. He has to keep his throne, no matter what. And when they say they would take his son as a guarantee to his good behaviour, he agrees too. He shuts his ears not hear the shouts, Alannys’ fierce roars, Asha’s screams, Theon’s wailing. He closes his eyes, forces himself not to watch, not to see, not to hear. They take came. They have taken him. 

He closes his eyes, shuts his ears, and locks his heart. His sons are dead, all three of them. He will not cry, he never have. He has to think ahead. A daughter he has still, he could make her his heir. That is all what matters now.

*

When Theon sees the walls of Winterfell, a single thought crosses his mind : _no wonder such men has crushed us_. He feels cold and the air is hard to breath there in the mainlands, the se ais not close enough, and he think she might suffocate. He closes his eyes, thinks of the waves on the Islands shores.

He thinks of his mother, her strong and dignified figure, and her soothing words. He thinks of Asha, taunting him friendly, and telling him to smile. Of Rodrik and Maron he does not want to think. But he thinks of his father, teaching him the meaning of their name, of those words he has carved on his heart, we do not sow, explaining their traditions and the old ways to him. He thinks of Dagmer, smiling. 

He holds on to those memories, and when he passes the strong gates of his new home – no, his prison – he swears one oath : his iron blood he will never forget, the salt will never leave his vein, for ironborn he was, from the Islands, a son of Pyke.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
